Michael Blake: The Holy Road

Like most women, Stands With A Fist had an uncanny nose for change in her husband. She knew right away that something was wrong. He was avoiding her face, and as the children recounted the adventures of what they called their "empty hunt," Dances With Wolves said little. Once in a while she would catch him in a glance and see the same sad smile. It seemed now as if it were painted on and it kept her on edge.

When the children were finally asleep she went outside to shake some bedding. She had already shaken it out that afternoon but she wanted a few moments alone. Something was coming but what it might be she could not guess. Perhaps he wanted another wife. Perhaps there was a sickness inside him. She could imagine nothing worse and, steeling herself for whatever might come, she ducked back into the lodge.

He was sitting in front of the fire but only looked at her from the corner of his eye.

Unable to wait any longer, she stood and faced him with folded arms.

"What has happened?" she demanded quietly.

"Sit down," he said, indicating a spot across the fire.

She sat and waited. Dances With Wolves' eyes shifted restlessly.

"What?" she asked again.

"Touch The Clouds was out there. I saw him."

"Is he well?'

"His mind is stirred up. It is the same with all the Kiowas."

"Why?"

Once more Dances With Wolves dropped his eyes to the fire. Then he looked up, trying to speak calmly.

"There are white soldiers coming into the country of the Kiowa — many white soldiers."

Stands With A Fist's eyes widened but she didn't move. It was if she had stopped breathing.

"They are making a soldier fort near the great Medicine Bluff.”

Stands With A Fist only blinked. She still could not move nor could she speak. She sat enveloped in a cocoon of blinding shock. The world seemed to have collapsed onto her meager shoulders and she was so powerless under its weight that the generation of something as small as a tear was impossible.

"The whites want the Kiowa to come in and live in small places. They are promising to feed people and take care of them if they will come into these places called reservations and stop making war. The whites are saying that if this is not done they will war against the Kiowa."

He looked to her for a response but saw the same dead stare in a pair of eyes fixed so completely on the moment that they were mindful of a look he had seen many times: the upturned face of a corpse gazing into eternity.

Dances With Wolves was reeling too, but his role as messenger drove him on. The words flowed out of him, and though he flattened them as best he could, they could not be changed.

"Other whites, called 'agents,' are there. They want to talk. They say they want to be friends, protectors to all the tribes. They are saying all will be well if people come in. Touch The Clouds smoked the pipe with me. His words are true."

Struggling, Stands With A Fist made a few words. Her mouth was trembling.

"What will Touch The Clouds do?"

“He doesn't know."

At last she moved, lowering her face for a moment, her lips quivering. She mechanically lifted her face to his and spoke again.

"What will we do?"

Dances With Wolves shook his head slowly.

"I don't know."

He started to get up and she jerked to life.

"Don't leave. Don't go now."

Dances With Wolves stepped over the fire, placed his hands under her arms, and lifted her.

"We will always be one," he whispered, guiding her gently toward the bed, where the children slept. He raised the robe and tucked her inside. Instinctively, she groped with closed eyes, pulling the bodies of her young close as Dances With Wolves knelt next to the bed.

"Sleep with our children," he said softly. "I will be with you, but I have to tell the Hard Shields this news."

"They are all at Wind In His Hair's," she mumbled, eyes still shut.

She turned her face and buried it in the familiar odors of her bed and children. She did not hear her husband's soft footfalls. Nor did she hear the flap slap against her home as he stepped into the night. She was already far away, cut off from fear and trouble, deep in the tiny world of her bed and the little beings she had brought to life. In seconds she had succumbed to the self-administered drug of the only place she felt safe, and as she slipped into unconsciousness, Stands with A Fist imagined a sleep that would carry her and the little world she now occupied far beyond the stars on the long drift into eternity.

Dances With Wolves had intended to alert Kicking Bird first, but on the way to his lodge he encountered several warriors who, seeing his agitation, inquired what errand he might be on. When he told them of the need for a council they naturally persisted in asking why and he had no choice but to report that there were white soldiers in the country of the Kiowas.

At that moment a fast-running, inextinguishable firestorm of alarm burned through every lodge in camp. By the time Dances With Wolves had roused Ten Bears, his simple pronouncement that white soldiers were in the country of the Kiowas had mushroomed into the popular belief that blue-coated soldiers were about to ring the village.

Warriors from every corner of camp were streaming into Kicking Bird's special lodge. Women and children were milling about in anxious confusion. The Hard Shields had suspended their own meeting to investigate the confusion, and when Dances With Wolves and Ten Bears pushed into the mass of men already assembled at Kicking Bird's they were greeted with the kind of chaos that would lead a casual observer to conclude that the sky was about to fall.

It was fortunate that Ten Bears still lived, for the respect his presence demanded calmed the inflamed crowd of warriors long enough to bring them under control. As room was made for Ten Bears' place of prominence at the fire, warriors who could find a patch of ground to sit on followed suit, their excitement diminishing in the process. Ten Bears drew out his pipe and smoked, wisely waiting for silence before allowing the council to begin.

At last he passed the pipe around the first circle and by the time it came back to the old man all was quiet. Ten Bears looked across the fire at Dances With Wolves.

"Tell us what You have heard."

He told of his meeting with Touch The Clouds and the mention of such a warrior sharpened the attention of all present. But by the time Dances With Wolves had finished his report, the excitement mounting in the lodge threatened to explode. Young warriors shouted out that they would take the trail against the whites that night. Their passion was infectious and every soul who heard them was stirred try their zeal.

But as Wind In His Hair rose to speak everyone quieted. Regardless of their courage, young warriors had no real standing. This warrior did, and everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

Wind In His Hair had learned that when one had true power it was not necessary to use it loudly. Though there were still inflections of his hallmark impulsiveness, Wind In His Hair spoke only a little above a whisper, the sweeping grace of his gestures a marked contrast to the gruesome disfigurement of his face. The single eye still burned, however, reminding all who saw him that Wind In His Hair was indomitable.

"We always knew the whites would come this way. The Cheyenne, now the Kiowa. . the Comanche next. Comanche always throw back the enemy. That is all I have to say."

This declaration was supported by ringing cheers, but they soon died down. Other strong men had to be heard. Kicking Bird, as was his custom, stayed seated, directing what he had to say toward the leading men in the first circle.

"What Wind In His Hair says is true," he began. "Comanches throw back their enemies and make them cry. But these are not the Utes or the Pawnee. This enemy is different. When the Utes and the Pawnee get whipped they go home and do not come back for a long time. For every white soldier we have killed, two more come in his place. Every Comanche knows that it is foolish to fight if you cannot win."